


Wifey

by cuntoid



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Breeding, Breeding Kink, Daddy Kink, F/M, Mindfuck, Monster Dick, Multi, Oral Sex, Other, Reality Bending, Sexism, Violence, clownfuckery, housewife stereotypes, the slightest hint of dubcon but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2019-05-08
Packaged: 2020-02-28 07:34:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18751888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuntoid/pseuds/cuntoid
Summary: Papa Pen finds you wandering the woods at night and gives you exactly what you're looking for.





	Wifey

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CerseiSassQueen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CerseiSassQueen/gifts).



> a little ditty for an especially good girl. thank you for letting me do this for you!

“Always know where to find me, _don’tcha_ , sugar?”

Hearing his voice is hardly startling anymore, not even when it comes unbidden from the shadows in the corner. He steps out of one as if from a void, some horrible, dank place where Things like him live, changing, feeding, floating. Fucking.

The trailer is old, decrepit, smelling only of mold and earth and something just beyond your frame of reference. It fills your lungs and settles in the soft, pink tissue there, a part of you in some new way. Pennywise slinks over to you with his cigarette lit, cherry waving in the dimness like a phantom. The sun hangs low, ready to dip behind the distant foothills. Even at its highest, the thick canopies of trees stop its light from penetrating too far here. It’s the darkest part of the woods. It radiates with it like a miasma, like light couldn’t come through even if somebody came roaring through with their highbeams – not that the close-knit trees would allow such a thing. Not here. Not this deep.

“More like the opposite,” you muse, running a finger along a stained, dusty countertop. It comes off black and greasy. Shadows grow longer by the second, stretching like the gory slash of his grin in the dark. It reminds you of what he is, what he could do to you. What he does do to others. “You seem to pop up wherever I go – _especially_ when I least expect it.”

“Oh! Oh, _yeah?_ Do tell, baby, exactly what you were _expecting_ in some old, _abandoned_ trailer in the woods? That pretty routine for you? You trying to attract other _Things_  to fuck you silly?”  


He _changes_. The flesh of his face becomes alive, slithering over the bones to turn him into something else. His shoulders roll in their sockets and crunch free from them, limbs contorting to show you an evolution of horror as it roots you to the floor. 

“I can be anything you can imagine, and so much _more, dollface!_ What’s the matter?” Teeth chitter in and out of orifices, sometimes his mouth, sometimes somewhere else. The flesh that isn’t real flesh shows you forms that border on the edge of impossible, great gaping chasms with a light somewhere inside of it, blazing, horrible orange that turns your stomach like waves on the shore. It resolves, blurs, resolves again, until... it _isn’t_. And it’s just him again, the Pennywise you think you know, laughing at you, pinching your cheek. He winks. “Clown got your tongue?”

“I can’t deal with that,” you murmur, voice almost as shaky as your hands. “That’s fucking... _intense_ , Penn.”

“ _Oh_ , you’re a _tough girl!_ I know you can handle it, _sweet thing,_ can’t ya. Don’t look too long at the pretty lights!”

His laugh is as long as it is ugly, peals of obnoxious cackle that twist through your head like barbed wire. He turns on his heel, bored with torturing you for the moment, and walks across the dilapidated shithole of a trailer as it creaks under his weight. He collapses back into a seat that isn’t there, hovering with one leg swinging to rest up on the other. He pulls a thick drag of smoke from his cigarette and it snakes from his nostrils, from between grinning, sharpened teeth. Teeth you love so much, teeth you want on your ribs, your thighs, your throat. He turns toward a shattered television, an old model with faux-wood paneling. Without moving his eyes to look back at you, he snaps his fingers.

“Babydoll, why don’t you grab me a beer, huh?”

It’s the first laugh you utter since entering the home. It’s almost jarring as you wrench open the stinking refrigerator, peeking at its lack of contents on the filthy shelves. Something crawls inside, slippery and wet and... winged. You lean in a little closer to the slithering thing, almost like a slug – like a leech. Like a winged _leech_ – 

Pennywise clears his throat and you startle, snapping your head in his direction to lock with his eyes. They’re brighter and more blue than ever, sparkling in the dark, and only now does it dawn on you how dark it is. 

“Sorry, Pen, I—I saw... holy shit.”

“Do you see a beer for me, like I asked? Don’t tell me I gotta ask twice.”

The fridge is on. It’s on, and stocked, and the light doesn’t flicker one bit. The bottom row is entirely stocked with cans of beer. There’s a logo, and a name, but the name remains unclear. It jumbles and blurs, it changes, like a dream. The can is cold in your hand as you lift and toss it to Pen, and the swing of your arm is like a switch; the trailer illuminates, and in a reclined, plush, overstuffed armchair, he catches the beer and cracks the tab. The carpet is low and the color of sad, cheap beige, the fixtures gaudy and retro. On the television, there’s grainy footage of a circus act. The first time you look, it’s a lion-tamer. The second time, it’s a lion-like beast on two legs, a monstrosity whipping a skinned man – a man-tamer. Each time you look, the picture is a little different, a little more resistant to your desperate attempt at logic and reasoning. And sometimes... it’s _not_. Pennywise glances over his shoulder with the widest, most shit-eating grin he can muster.

“Like it, baby?”

Boards whisper and creak under your feet, soft as ghosts. It’s easy to walk to him, to feel cool air between your thighs as your clothes disappear, as a silky slip-dress takes their place. Soft pink brushes against you and just the sight of your hips in the slip forces the blood to your cheeks. His eyes squeeze you before his hands do, big, mean hands separated from your bare skin only by his gloves. Crisp white meets baby pink and you lean into it, encouraged by his smirk to climb over the arm of the chair and slide into his lap. 

“ _Yeah_ , Penn,” you breathe. His fingers dig into the softness of your hips, your breasts, your ass. “I like playing house with you.”

“Playing house. You’d _like_ that, huh? Being my obedient little _fucktoy_ , cooking my dinner with that slutty nightie on, being at my beck ‘n call. Sucking my cock whenever I snap my fingers.”

“ _God, yes_.” It’s so easy to melt at the images he’s putting in your head. Behind you, a fuzzy chorus of moans spills from the TV set. A glance behind your shoulder gifts you with visions of your own undoing, the screen filled with several tiny, flickering images of you, of Pennywise doing things to wring those sounds from you. It’s a roiling sea of curses and whines and sobs, of his mean laughter and the perverse things he coos to you in your ear. 

He shoves you to the ground. There’s no grace to the way you slide off the extended footrest, crumpling on the floor and hissing at the carpet burning your elbow. He lowers the rest with a smirk, blowing the last drag of his cigarette before flicking it to the side. His fingers grow, elongating to skeletal claws the color of decayed flesh. They look mummified, like the limb of a creature you might find at the edge of a nightmare, something that could only survive in the dark. He twists the claws into the fabric of his satin suit and tears the seam apart.  
His cock looks a little different every time. It’s never quite the same, and never quite human, an ever-changing mass of tendon and pulse and girth, slippery as it is alien, sometimes bordering on incomprehensible. Tonight, it drips a toxic black ichor that shines in the dull light and refracts beads of color that you fail to recognize. 

He lifts a brow and snaps his fingers, gloves crisp once more and entirely unharmed. 

A tentative lick has him shuddering. The evil looking slick tastes sweet, subtle as a daydream, and your lips and tongue tingle with a pleasant numbness. The tingle spreads and gathers like pockets of lightning in your salivary glands, and in seconds, you’re lapping and drooling over his cock like you’re desperate for it. The chase of electricity over your taste buds is too intoxicating to quit, and you love this, the impossibility of what he can do. 

“C’mon, _dollface_ , you can go deeper. _Show me_. Show Daddy what you can do with that _pretty little mouth_.”

Lips buzzing, you peek up at him from under your lashes, giving him one last, long lick up the length of his cock. 

“I _can’t_. It’s too big this time, _I can’t_.” The disappointment gives way to a new eagerness, some inherent need for the taste of his cum, of whatever’s oozing freely from the pulsing, squirming appendage pushing insistently between your lips. You turn away and he grabs a fistful of your hair, tilting you up to meet his eye. They burn, bleeding venous drops down his cheeks. 

“You know how I feel about ‘ _can’t_ ’, baby. Y’see, _can’t_ suggests that there are limits. It means I _can’t_ do whatever I like, that I can’t _FUCK your GORGEOUS face right open!_ And, _oh_ , I’ve done _worse_ , sugar, so much worse. I once told somebody that if they try, they’ll die, but _you? You’ve_ got the _opposite_ problem. Understand?”

“I... I understand, Penn.” Your tongue is lazy, thick behind your teeth. The tingle behind that numbness moves through the cords of your jaw, back into your gums and the back of your throat, tracing your nervous system with a sense of weightlessness. You want to sink into Penn and become a part of him, taste him from the inside, feel what it’s like to be wrapped up in his strange flesh. 

“That’s good! _So_ good. Show me.”

You stroke him with both hands, admiring all that wet, rippled flesh. There’s still no way it’ll fit – the head alone is almost too wide to open up for, jaws comically parted like you’re the one threatening to take a bite out of him. He laughs a little, in his warm, teasing way, like his knuckles aren’t still tangled up in your hair. 

Closing your eyes makes it less embarrassing. You open your lips until they’re stretched over your teeth, til the corners of your jaw ache, and against all odds, the head of his cock slides over your tongue easy as you please. Bumps and ridges twist around each other, crossing over vein and sinew alike as though he can’t stand to be bare of decoration, even here. Allowing your eyes to flutter open treats you to his gaze, hooded and glowing with something that shifts like smoke behind the blur of red gore. Your belly flips, tugging at the back of your throat like a bell at the sight of his cock. It’s both too large to manage and pushing over your tongue all the same. The sight of it overlaps and complicates itself, nauseating in its uncertainty – is it too big? Does it fit, is it truly his cock nudging the trembling back of your tongue, or is it something else? 

Your stomach lurches into your throat, caught behind a growing knot as your eyes tear up, and Pennywise yanks you back by the hair so that you’re gagging and choking over the cheap carpet. It’s easier to kneel like this, to run your fingers through the reality he’s created for you and distract yourself from seeing... whatever his body was doing. Warping. Existing in two different forms at the same time.

From your place on the floor, his cock once again looks far too big, thick and wriggling and flushed. He palms it, runs a finger up the base and shivers.

“I like that face you make – _that one_ , fuck. So goddamn _pretty_ and _stupid_ , aren’t you, baby? Bet you’re nice and wet now, right? Yeah, I’m fuckin’ _right._ Bet you’re hurtin’ real bad for it. _Tell me._ ”

“ _I am, Penn_ –”

“Where... the _fuck_... are your _manners?_ ”

“Daddy! _Daddy_ , I’m sorry, _please_. Please let me have it, I _want_ you...”

“Come and get it, honey-pie. Come sit that sweet, slippery cunt up on Papa’s lap, huh?”

Of course you do. Of course you crawl the last few feet across the floor and come up his legs, hands on his solid thighs, where he’s hairy and warm and could almost pass for human.

_Almost._

His cock slithers over itself, thick and roped through with veins that carry no blood, no trace of a pulse, though you hear the faint patpatpat of your own inside your chest. You could beat for the both of you, the speed of that flutter enough to shoot you into the stars, to take you far away from the monster stroking your cheek, but would you leave him? Could you ever really escape him?

Would you _want_ to?

Settling over his thighs and over the eager, curling thing in his lap feels like sinking into a bath that’s far too hot, but being too drunk with the comfort of it all to save yourself from scalding. It was one thing to take him (somehow) into your mouth – it’s quite another to slide him against your slit, trapping him in that tight, smoldering place and rocking your hips to build the tension in your belly. Watching him lean back in his seat is a gift, a proof of your efforts going noticed. Cigar smoke seeps into the air. It flavors his lips when you taste them, tongue soft and slow against yours, mimicking the roll of his cock.

“Feels good, darlin’?”

“Yeah – _yes_ , Daddy.” Your voice is small, and you feel small, dwarfed by both Pennywise and the massive tangle of muscle writhing between your thighs. Just the thought of trying to take him in, even the tapered tip, is too much; it steals an unexpected moan from your throat. He chuckles and you swallow another one deep, deep down, all the way down to where your belly feels like it’s full of fire when you’d so much rather be full of him. 

His fingers close around your throat and they feel like they belong there, like he should shackle you up in a collar and keep you here all to himself. The thought of him tugging you around like a pet, like a domesticated bitch, is freeing in a way that feels deliriously true. It might be the blood swimming in your head, roaring in your ears in its pulsing language. It might be his sharkish grin. There are lights behind his eyes, so deep and faint that they might not exist at all, but it makes you warm to think of the toxic orange glow fueling them. Images float through your mind like a stack of photographs, startling in their clarity: you, seated up on the kitchen counter with Pen holding your thighs open so he can taste you; cooking him a meal while wearing a dress, ass bare and welted underneath; his big hands on your tits, on your swollen belly, your changed body a testament to his virility. Each image is more perverse and attractive than the next, beckoning to you closer to unravelling that tight knot of tension between your thighs. 

“How do you _do_ that?” Your voice comes slow and stupid, thick as syrup and just as sweet if judging from Pennywise’s expression. His eyes roll back in his head and he growls, fingers clenching around your throat until your desperate moaning cuts off into a wheeze. 

“How do I do _what,_ sugar? Make you cum? You tryin’ to tell me you _came without asking?_ ”

The lack of air makes your brain swim, makes your body feel weightless and skirting the most dangerous line of all: disobedience. Without your words, you shake your head violently in the negative, and only now as you dance that step between safety and utter failure do you feel the first pangs of fear. It’s a strange thing, feeling every instinct switch to flight when all you can do is squirm and buck and grab weakly at his wrist.

“ _No?_ ” He leans in, teeth bared, and sniffs at the air til his painted nose presses against that sensitive, fragrant spot behind your ear. “ _Fuck_ – maybe I should have had you ride my _face_ , baby girl. You are so _slick_. You need me inside?”

Nodding is difficult, but you make it happen. He laughs, the sound of it so deep and dissonant that it should cool you off, pull you back from the brink in favor of fighting for your life. It’s the sound of a predator about to consume its prey whole, it’s the sound of a cocked gun. 

Instead of his cock, he lifts you by his grip alone and uses his free hand to push two fingers inside, soaking his gloves with your arousal, and it’s like a bolt of lightning up through your spinal cord. Static shoots down each and every nerve, alight with the force of his curved fingers as they fuck you. He crushes his lips to yours, nipping at them, making sure to rub them raw against those sharp edges. He licks the tiny smear of blood right from the source. 

Underneath you, his cock is somehow harder, thicker, _hotter_. It throbs and twists, tip writhing up to tease at your entrance. Little goes in the way of actual entry, big as he is, but the bulbous thing persists even as you steady yourself with your hands on his shoulders. He finally releases your throat and it’s like color being returned to the world around you. He allows a grace period of only a few seconds for you to sputter and gasp before he rears his hips back and forces the tip of his cock barely inside of you. 

“ _Daddy_.” 

So much power behind your voice is lost in the slow grind upward, the inevitable stretching of your cunt to fit him inside. There’s no real chance to catch your breath before he steals it away again, rocking up, up, up, humming his appreciation with his fingers pressed into the soft flesh of your hips. 

“Sounds so goddamn _good_ coming from you, babydoll. _Nasty little thing_. Trying not to bounce herself down on Daddy’s cock – just too good. I know what you need. I know you wanna come stay my way, be my _best girl._ Never gotta leave the house... _oh, yes, you like that_. Like thinking of spending your days gagging on my dick, or putting that pretty ass in the air for me so I can see how ready you are. Sleep, eat, _fuck_. My little doll, _all mine._ ”

“ _Jesus – ohmygodPenwaitWAIT_ –” 

Just as before, there’s a jarring sense of disconnect from reality, feeling how impossibly large he is while feeling him lodged inside your cunt all the same, pulsing, roiling within those velvety-slick walls until he has to release your throat to pin your thighs down. All the thrashing and bucking can’t save you from that grip, determined to keep you exactly where he needs you most – at his absolute mercy.

“Like it when ya _squirm_ , babydoll! Feels _oh-so-good_ ,” he croons, voice rough at the edges. It’s like his words are being ripped free from his chest. “Look at you, taking Daddy’s big fuckin’ cock, like the little _slut_ you are! Revel in it, baby. Take me. _Take it all_.”

Sounds pour out of your mouth, consonants, vowels, but none of them string together to make any sense. Whether you’re praising or cursing him, it’s music to his ears. He shudders and his laughter swirls around the room to bounce off the walls and cloud it, cacophonous, leaving space for nothing but the screaming heat of your climax building in your belly. His hand goes there and the gloves are gone, his skin reduced to mangled, rubbery flesh corded through with exposed veins and melting scar tissue, bits of bone bright as bleach. 

“Gunna put myself where it counts. Really _own_ you the way you want to be owned – _yeah?_ Oh, you _dirty birdie_ , does that make your little cunt twitch? Maybe I should. Maybe I oughta pump you full of cum, fuck a baby into you. That would be _real_ fun before I leave for my rest – give me something to look forward to.”

“ _Fuck_ – fuck, _no_ , we can’t. We _can’t_ ,” you cry, and the sound of your voice is so pathetic, so stripped of control, that the flush on your cheeks deepens into a brushfire. Below you, he rolls his hips in a vicious jerk-and-stab that grinds against every available inch of flesh; just as surely, he gives you the gift of his abuse, yanking your hair, fucking you open til it feels you might split in two. 

Around you, the quaint little trailer done up like a shabby seventies homestead flickers in and out of perception. Parts of it fog and blip out from existence, exposing the rotting wood and stained floors, a gutted mattress in the corner. Pennywise growls and grunts and gnashes his teeth, so long and sharp that they’re just another impossibility of his form. What is a physical form, anyway? What is anything, really, when the world around you fizzles in and out of existence and you’re too worked up to remember which one you belong to?

“ _That’s right_.” 

The creature beneath you changes. Deep in the pits where his eyes are and sometimes aren’t, twin flames burst into an orange so violently bright that it stops your breath, tightens every strained and aching muscle in your body. It bleeds into you, into each and every sense until you can practically taste the living light inside – more than one light, just a little further, a little _deeper_ – 

“ _Give in_. Give it _all_ over to me, be my play-thing, my _needy little doll_. Let me _fuck_ my seed into you til you’re swollen with my brood, filled to bursting with them. Gunna breed my bitch, isn’t that right? Nasty fucking girl, aren’tcha? _All mine, all for me._ ”

“ _Yes!_ Yes, all for you, for _you, please._..”

“Please _what?_ Speak up, baby! Say it louder for Daddy.”

“Please fill me up! I’ll do anything you want, I’ll be _anything_. _Please._ ”

“ _There’s my good girl. Cum,_ babydoll – get _nice and tight_ for me, milk my cock like a obedient little pet you are – and you _are_ so damn _good_ , aren’tcha?”

There’s barely a breath to give him a coherent answer before the world implodes on you, bursting white and clean and like electricity through your spine. It zips up through your guts sure as his claws could, sure as those cannibal-teeth could raze their way through your bones. It comes in waves that make you swoon and he has to hold you up by the hair. Pain is so far away, a foreign tingle you heard of once but can’t remember now, not in the fog of sensation saturating your every nerve. 

_Please, please, please_ trails from your lips in a voice that stretches and rises and drops like a melody. The twisting thing inside of you swells even further and ripples, the hot gush of his cum so viscous that it oozes around him to stain your thighs, an ichor so dark and sticky that it could be blood. Pennywise barely looks like himself the way you’re used to him, ragged and coming apart at the seams, like his body can’t stay together. The hollows under his eyes are deep enough that they might have been carved there. His teeth are framed in a grimace from which he pants, catching his breath as the last of him cum pumps up inside of you, so deep against your cervix that his intentions are unmistakable.

Like a ragdoll, he picks you up off his softening cock and splays you over his lap, arms around you and his lips against your temple. In the kitchen, a pot boils and the oven light reveals something baking off in a casserole dish, foiled up and audibly bubbling just barely under the sound of the television. His chair is propped up and four legs rest there, two bare and two covered in stained silk. 

It feels good to lie on his chest, pretending that the nostalgic static of the TV and the smell of cheap home-cooking is real in a way that matters. Pennywise strokes your hair and chuckles to himself, and upon a glance up, you spy a brand new cigar in his knuckles. Always a new cigar, a new cigarette, smoke cycling through lungs that aren’t, through a body that isn’t. His seed drips down your thighs and the guilty pleasure of it being there, being felt as it seeps out, fills you with satisfaction and a little fear. He can’t really get you pregnant – _can he?_

Pennywise runs clean, gloved fingers through your hair and, after a timer in the kitchen goes off, pats your ass as firmly as any real, flesh-and-blood human might. 

“ _Hop to it_ , sugar. Don’t keep Daddy waiting.”


End file.
